Snow Dragon

The journey from the Land of Lava to the Bloodaxe Clan's settlement took a little over half a month. Solam had expected to get home by mid-October, before the first snowfall. Avalon had four distinct seasons, each lasting three months, which meant October was already winter. But he hadn't counted on the Forge Clan's people being so generous. They'd given him so many gifts that he had no choice but to travel on foot.

So, just as you'd expect, when the first snow began to fall, Solam was still on the road. Snow slowed him down even more, and he figured it would take at least another half month to get home...

"Ah... I've got too much stuff, and I can't just throw it away. What a pain. I'll have to take it slow. Should've gotten a pack animal." Solam made camp in a hollow sheltered from the wind beneath a hillside. It was a bit like a shallow cave, so it blocked the snow and wind quite well.

"This snow's too heavy. I'll have to rest here for now. Otherwise, I could easily lose my way." Solam spoke to himself. Little Saurfang's birthday wasn't until early December, so he had plenty of time. There was no need to rush.

Solam looked out at the blizzard. It didn't seem likely to let up anytime soon, so he probably wouldn't be going anywhere today. He'd have to wait and see what things looked like tomorrow.

Then he began his daily meditation. It let him commune with the elements and sharpen his senses, making him more attuned to their power. Solam could clearly feel the Air Elemental and water elements stirring with unusual energy.

Once his daily meditation was over, Solam had no idea what to do. This world didn't have handheld game consoles or cell phones. Normally, he could play cards or chess with other people, or at the very least, chat and joke around.

But out here in the wilderness, there wasn't much to pass the time. He could only lie down and sleep, as most Orcs did during the winter.

So Solam spread his fur blanket beside the fire and settled down against Frostfang. Direwolf fur really was something else. Before long, leaning against Frostfang had him feeling downright toasty.

He wasn't sleepy, but with nothing else to do, he could only let his mind wander. Somehow, Solam found himself thinking about the porn from his old world...

He'd barely started thinking about it before he realized he'd been pent up for too long. Maybe it was making him sick. But a little while later, he couldn't help picturing those scenes that only took two or three people to act out. He really was all grown up now. Maybe he needed to go out into the wider world and see things for himself. Otherwise, was he really going to spend his whole life giving himself a death grip? That would be so pathetic.

Then Solam's thoughts began to wander all over the place.

How did people in this world get through those long nights? The poor commoners had no chance. If they could go home and make a baby, they were lucky. Most probably just went to a little tavern for a drink.

Speaking of which, Avalon didn't have much in the way of alcohol. There was only Milk Wine, and it wasn't very strong. Orcs were naturally astonishingly good drinkers, and Solam had never seen anyone get drunk. His grandfather and Blackhand, who had traveled beyond Avalon, only ever missed one thing about the outside world: its strong liquor. Avalon's Orcish Milk Wine also had a sour taste, and Solam wasn't much of a fan.

Still, while Avalon's alcohol was nothing special, its tobacco was excellent. The Forge Clan was Avalon's biggest tobacco producer. Thinking of that, Solam took a cigar from his pack. That's right—a cigar. He'd made it himself. He'd asked Muller's dad for some dried tobacco leaves, then rolled them up one by one. But when he'd given one to Blackhand, the old man had turned up his nose at it. He thought only loose tobacco let you really taste the flavor, and that rolling up tobacco leaves and smoking them was terribly low-class. At first, Solam had thought the old man was talking nonsense. But when he asked around, he found that nobody else could accept the idea either... He was surprised. Turns out, knowledge from his past life wasn't always useful.

"Phew." Solam lit the cigar and took a deep drag. Smoking was bad for your health, but with a body like his, it was no big deal. He could probably smoke ten cigars a day and still be perfectly fine.

Watching the smoke drift out, Solam wondered how nobles passed the time. Did they make babies too?

But judging from all the dirty jokes Blackhand had told him, most of them involving nobles, the aristocrats of this world were pretty debauched. Then again, maybe they spent their evenings reading.

Solam wanted to read to pass the time, but there wasn't a single book in Avalon. That reminded him: he was still illiterate.

That was unacceptable. In his previous life, illiterate people were as rare as phoenix feathers. In that world, being illiterate was almost the same as being an idiot—at least in most places. But where could Solam go to learn? There were hardly any literate people in Avalon. Most stories and histories had been passed down by word of mouth.

Just as Solam's thoughts were running wild in every direction, a tremendous roar suddenly sounded in the distance. It made Solam and Frostfang sit bolt upright.

"That sounded like a dragon's roar." Solam recognized it from the sound.

There were dragons in Avalon, but not intelligent ones like the great dragons. Most were Wyverns or other winged creatures. They were clever, but still no more than beasts.

These Wyverns were widespread throughout Avalon, and there were many kinds. Solam had seen the Lava Wyvern that lived in the Land of Lava with his own eyes. The entire Forge Clan had sent out its warriors to deal with it, and they'd barely managed to bring it down. Several warriors had died, and many more had been wounded. Creatures like that generally stayed away from Orc settlements. If one was spotted, the nearby Orc clans would kill it at any cost. Wyverns had huge appetites—they could eat hundreds of pounds of meat in one sitting—and were vicious, posing a great threat to both people and animals.

Solam and Frostfang held their breath. Few Wyverns were active in weather like this. Most went straight into hibernation for the winter. There was only one kind that could fly around in a blizzard like this: the Snow Dragon, a Wyvern that lived above the snow line in the high mountains.

It had no scales, only snow-white fur like a mammal's. Calling it a dragon was a bit of a stretch, since its head was very different from that of a typical dragon. It looked more like a bird of prey, though it had horns on its head. Its beak was very birdlike and had no sharp teeth. Its wings weren't made of a fleshy membrane, either, but were closer to a bird's wings. Still, its roar sounded much like a dragon's, which was why its name included the word "dragon."

These monsters liked to leave the high mountains and roam the plains during blizzards, which was why they were called Snow Dragons. They were much stronger than ordinary Wyverns. For one thing, they were a size larger, incredibly fast, and extremely vicious. They'd eat just about any living thing. In blizzards, they would even attack Orcs' livestock pens and snatch Thunder Beasts to eat.

If one set its sights on you in weather like this, it was very hard to escape. Don't let its lack of fangs fool you: its beak could easily bite metal weapons into several pieces. To put it in perspective, tearing a healthy adult Snow Tiger into shreds was child's play for a Snow Dragon. More importantly, Snow Dragons could cast spell-like abilities, so ordinary warriors had very little chance against one. (A Snow Dragon was over 15 meters long, including its tail, and weighed more than 3,000 pounds. Strength: 22, Intelligence: 8, Dexterity: 20, Constitution: 20, Wisdom: 15, Charisma: 16.)

Solam had no desire to challenge a Snow Dragon at this time of year. It was far too dangerous, so as soon as he realized what it was, he put out the fire.

"Roar!" Another tremendous roar rang out, much closer than the last. There was fury in it, too. It sounded as if the Snow Dragon had run into trouble. Was someone fighting it?

Solam hesitated. If another Orc was fighting the Snow Dragon, he couldn't just stay hidden. That went against the values of a Shaman—and of any Avalon Orc.

Solam wasn't afraid of fighting. In fact, he didn't even feel fear. He just couldn't tell whether the one fighting the Snow Dragon was an Orc. If the Snow Dragon was fighting some other beast, rushing over would just be a surprise attack on himself.

Just then, there was a loud explosion. An explosion meant it was probably an Orc; not many beasts could make a sound like that.

Solam immediately slung his axe over his back and took Thor's Hammer in hand. He used his mind to signal Frostfang to stay quiet, then they crept over to see if there was a chance to strike the Snow Dragon from behind.

Solam and Frostfang quickly crept toward the roars. The Snow Dragon's cries came faster and faster. It looked like a fierce battle.

They hadn't gone far when they spotted the Snow Dragon from the top of a hill. It was over 17 meters long, its body already covered in wounds of all sizes. From time to time, it swooped down from the sky to attack.

As Solam got closer, he saw that a figure was fighting the Snow Dragon. The person was wrapped in a black cloak, so he couldn't tell who it was, but it definitely wasn't a beast. Solam didn't bother trying to identify the cloaked figure. He kept his eyes fixed on the Snow Dragon. The figure didn't seem to be on the verge of giving up, so Solam had time to consider how to land a decisive blow.

First, he needed to slow the monster down. Its speed was no joke. If he couldn't slow it, defeating it would be out of the question; even hitting it would be difficult. So Solam decided to hurl Thor's Hammer at its head, then strike its wing or long neck with his axe while it was stunned, hoping to cripple it in one blow.

Once he'd worked out his plan, Solam told Frostfang to wait where he was. Frostfang wouldn't be much help if he went in anyway. Solam would sneak closer to the fight on his own; the nearer he got, the better his chances.